When it came to laying political mines, Alan Wilson trusted the Portuguese more than the French. Not because the French were entirely untrustworthy — though they often were — but because he doubted his ability to charm them into bleeding for British India.
Had he any real say in the shape of independence, the subcontinent's partition would have included not just Hindu and Muslim states but the Christian minority as well — Goa's Catholics foremost among them. In another reality, he might have sat across from Muhammad Ali Jinnah, aligning on that point purely to make Nehru's life more difficult.
Now, however, he was merely a civil servant with a knack for slipping into the cracks of history. And the Portuguese crack was too tempting to ignore.
As the Mandalay offensive rumbled eastward, the war in Europe surged west. Before dawn, Allied artillery — fourteen hundred Canadian guns — roared across the Rhine. The German 84th Division was the first to taste the barrage. Western commanders believed, perhaps correctly, that once the river was crossed, German resistance would collapse like a rotting wall.
Two glasses clinked."We should be grateful," Alan told John, the Resident of Junagadh, his smile polite but knowing. "In a war that has consumed the world, we remain… untouched."
"If my health had allowed it, I'd have fought for the Empire to the last," John declared with the sincerity of a man certain he'd never be tested. He drained his whisky. "Still, peace is a precious thing."
"Indeed. Even Chamberlain's peace, ill-timed though it was, had reason behind it. Pity his counterpart was a lunatic." Alan let the remark hang — politically incorrect in the Churchillian afterglow, but entirely true.
From the balcony of the Nizam's palace, they looked down on a gathering of princely representatives. John gestured discreetly toward a small cluster."Why is the Portuguese Governor's man here, Wilson?"
Alan's tone was casual. "Because Salazar is a fascist of the Franco mould… and because Portugal stayed 'neutral' long enough to see which way the wind blew. I suspect both he and Franco are ready to cheer whichever side wins."
John chuckled. "A universal talent, that."
Alan's gaze swept over the hall below. "Shall we introduce ourselves?"
They descended into the palace's great chamber. The air was thick with the scents of spice, tobacco, and colonial perfume. Outside, Hyderabad was in festival mode — not for the conference, but for Holi, the Hindu riot of colour that the Muslim Nizam tolerated for the sake of peace.
Fifteen states had been invited; the lesser hundreds were ignored. Kashmir had been pointedly left off the list. Power gravitated toward the few — as it always did.
In a quiet corner, Alan and John took seats with Pedro, the Portuguese representative from Goa. Alan began lightly, praising Allied progress across the Rhine, letting his voice swell with imperial pride.
"If the Germans fight to the last, they'll be finished within six months," Alan said, as if ordering tea. "Londoners are no doubt chilling the champagne already."
If Pedro had been American, he might have bristled. But a Portuguese diplomat knew his country's position in the pecking order — and Britain had always kept Lisbon one rung down.
John played the agreeable echo. "The war has taught us one thing: Germany must be broken — in spirit and in strength — so it can never threaten peace again."
The two men moved like fencers, alternating red-face provocation and white-face reassurance. Pedro could only nod, smiling in that careful, colonial way that meant I will not contradict you.
"And we must, of course," Alan said, fixing Pedro with an unblinking gaze, "thank Prime Minister Salazar for his… friendly neutrality."
The phrase was dipped in honey and edged with steel. Everyone knew Salazar had danced between Axis and Allies, almost stepping fully into Hitler's camp. Alan's compliment was a thinly veiled reminder.
Pedro hesitated. John stepped in smoothly. "Every nation acts for its own interests, Mr. Pedro. I think we can all appreciate that… can't we?"
Pedro's smile widened by a millimetre. The conversation moved on, but Alan filed the moment away.
The Portuguese could be useful — not just now, but in the future. After all, Goa had been theirs before there was a British India. And when the Union Jack finally came down over Delhi, a man in Alan's position might find Lisbon's stubborn little outpost a very convenient bolt-hole indeed.